


the sound of darkness

by dashwood



Series: variations on a theme [1]
Category: La casa de papel | Money Heist (TV)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Because Palermo is in pain and he's not coping well, But don't worry Berlin's got this, Descriptions of Pain, Episode Tag: 48 Meters Underground, M/M, Rating is for swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-28
Updated: 2020-04-28
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:48:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23714674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dashwood/pseuds/dashwood
Summary: “My brave ingeniero. What you were doing was conscientious. Protecting the team, acting every part the valiant leader,” Andrés sighs, and Martín sucks in a sharp breath as he feels his finger trail over his right cheekbone, the touch as soft as a feather. “I just wish it hadn’t been at the expense of your pretty face.”Or: 48 Meters Underground, but with Berlin
Relationships: Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa/Palermo | Martín Berrote
Series: variations on a theme [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1744213
Comments: 31
Kudos: 267





	the sound of darkness

**Author's Note:**

> I know this has been done before a dozen times, but I wanted to throw my version of this scene out there. I hope you guys like it!

“Do you see the light?” 

Palermo forces his eyes open, and regrets it immediately. The light that floods his vision is too bright – it's like staring right into the sun. It’s garish and blinding, and it feels like someone poured fucking acid all over his face. 

No, he thinks as he screws his eyes shut. The darkness is kinder. And it’s not like it makes much of a difference anyway; he can’t see shit. He’s a blind man now, useless to the plan. A burden. He should count himself lucky if Tokyo doesn’t shoot him in the head to deliver him from his pain like a horse with a broken leg. He's _worthless_. 

“Like the floodlights in Maracanã stadium,” he bites out through clenched teeth. “Does that make a difference? You’re an eye specialist now, Tokyo?” 

Paradoxically, he wants to laugh. Within the blink of an eye, his whole world – all the swirls of color, the vibrancy, the hues – everything has been reduced to nothingness. He’s never had a taste for art, but to be robbed of it entirely? It’s a fucking nightmare. An unnecessary cruelty. 

He tries to compensate by concentrating on his other senses. That’s what blind people do, right? Forget sight – who needs that shit anyway? What’s the fucking point in seeing the world in all its beautiful glory, splendid and resplendent? The sun, the sky, the stars. 

(The face of the man he loves.) 

No, Palermo is better off focusing on smells and sounds. He’s a glass-half-full kind of guy. 

There’s the metallic stench of blood, heavy in the air. He can feel it in his mouth, too. Staining his teeth and lingering on his tongue like a cloying wine. It makes him want to gag. 

Around him, the room has erupted into a cacophony of sounds. There are the panicked voices of Tokyo and Stockholm drifting through the haze of pain. Frantic shuffling and scrambling-around. He thinks he can hear Denver retching, and fuck – that can’t be a good sign. 

He wants to snarl and growl, but the insults die in his throat when someone takes his hand. 

The touch is familiar, safe and comfortable, and all of a sudden it feels like the wind has been ripped from his sails. Oh, it doesn’t lessen the pain – not by a long shot – but it’s enough to ground him. An anchor in a sea of despair. 

“Tokyo.” 

Berlin’s tone is clipped and authoritative. There won’t be any arguing, and Palermo’s throat tightens at the sheer relief that sweeps over him in that moment. Thank fuck one of the adults has arrived on scene. There are no words to describe the mind-numbing panic he’s felt up until now. The one you feel when there’s nothing but murky shadows and the sound of your compatriots scurrying around like rats, cursing and crying, and not telling you a fucking thing that’s going on. 

It’s _terrifying_. 

“Go and help Nairobi with the hostages,” Berlin continues. “I’m putting you in charge. But don’t get greedy, I’ll take over as soon as Palermo’s patched up.” 

Berlin squeezes his hand and it’s _I’m here_ and _I’ve got you_ , and Palermo feels a sense of calm wash over him. It’s the sort of tranquility he’d expect to experience if he were on the verge of drowning. A peace of mind. It’s going to be alright, Palermo tells himself. Berlin’s here, and he sounds calm and levelheaded. He knows what to do. He always does. 

“I was just trying to help,” Tokyo hisses, ever the spitfire. “I don’t know why though. He’s an ungrateful bastard—” 

“Kicking someone when they are down is generally considered to be in bad taste,” Berlin drawls. There’s a sharp edge to his tone, a warning. 

The words make his stomach churn. Palermo’s not a fucking invalid, and the mere thought that Berlin might consider him as useless – as _worthless_ – drives him absolutely mad. He opens his mouth, but his protestations are drowned out by Tokyo’s irritated huff as she storms off, her footsteps heavy and angry. Good riddance. 

“Berlin.” Stockholm sounds small and timid. She’s clearly terrified, which – welcome to the fucking club – _he_ is, too. “Here’s the first aid kit.” 

There’s some shuffling, some shifting around. Palermo wants to fucking _whine_ when Berlin lets go of his hand, his fingers reaching out on their own accord in a desperate attempt to find him again. To cling to the only person who will protect him. The only one who cares for him. 

“It’s alright, Palermo.” 

He can feel Berlin’s hands framing his face, his thumbs brushing over his cheekbones. Rationally, Palermo knows that he’s assessing the damage, but something tugs at his heart nonetheless. His touch is so gentle, so _careful_ , that Palermo can almost fool himself into believing it’s a lover’s touch, brimming with affection. 

“I need the tweezers, Stockholm.” 

“No,” Palermo hears himself gasp out. His chest constricts, clenches as if someone is pushing down on him, an iron fist squeezing his lungs. “You’re not stabbing my eyes with a fucking pair of tweezers.” 

Berlin clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth. 

“Don’t you trust me, Palermo?” 

The question is teasing, almost taunting. It’s superfluous, really. They both know that Palermo trusts Berlin unreservedly. That he’d follow him to the end of the world and into the ninth circle of hell, gladly. Eagerly. It’s more of a reminder, an admonition, and so Palermo takes a deep breath and gives a sharp nod of his head. 

“You know that I’m an artist,” Berlin says. “I have restored some of the most beautiful works of art. Paintings, drawings, frescos... Do you know how it works, Palermo? It’s a tedious process. There’s a fine line between preserving a painting, restoring it to its former beauty – and damaging it irreparably.” 

Berlin pauses, and Palermo feels his thumb smooth over one of his eyebrows. 

“And what are your eyes if not a beautiful work of art?” 

Palermo’s hands clench into fists. No. This isn’t fair. 

_Don’t_ , he wants to say. _Don’t say things like that. Not if you don’t mean them. Don’t make me think that I could ever be as precious as one of your paintings._

_Please._

What he says instead is biting. 

“I don’t need the sweet talk. You’ve already got me on my back, _Berlin_.” He spits the name out, infuses it with ire and rancor in the hope that Berlin will realize that Palermo doesn’t need the aloof ringleader right now. What he needs is his friend. He needs _Andrés_. 

“Just tell me,” Palermo grinds out. “How bad is it?” 

His words are met with silence. They’re probably exchanging looks right now, Palermo thinks. Trying to figure out how they can sugarcoat the truth. Fucking cowards. 

“It’s not that bad,” Stockholm says eventually. The way her breath catches in her throat makes him think she’s lying. “I’m sure you’ll be alright.” 

He wants to fucking _groan_. Wants to snarl and hiss and growl at her for daring to lie to him. All he’s done is ask for the truth and nothing but the truth. And she can’t even grant him that one decency? Can’t even tell him to his face that his eyes are a fucking mess, and that he’s become absolutely worthless to the whole fucking team? To the plan? 

But then he feels Berlin’s hand on his forehead, softly brushing the hair out of his face, and it's enough to send his heart racing. His touch is so gentle – eerily sweet, really – that Palermo knows he won’t like what’s coming next. 

“This is going to hurt,” Berlin warns him, and Palermo clenches his teeth. He takes his time. Counts to one, two, three, and up to ten. Tries to steel himself for the unimaginable pain that he knows will follow. Then he gives Berlin a jerky nod, thinking _go ahead_ , thinking _do your worst_. 

He regrets it immediately. 

It feels like someone’s taking a hot iron poker to his eyes, and Palermo hisses and whines and whimpers like a wounded animal about to be slaughtered. He draws up his knees, the soles of his feet digging into the ground beneath him in a desperate attempt to scramble away, driven by the raw, primordial urge to _flee_. It’s a fight or flight response, and he’s on the losing end. 

“Shh, it’s alright,” Berlin says, and Palermo thinks that— 

“If you hush me one more time, I’m going to punch you in the face.” 

Berlin has the fucking gall to _laugh_ at him. 

“You have the worst aim, my friend. And I doubt that having been blinded has improved it.” 

His words are teasing, but the fingers carding through his hair are kind and loving. It’s as close to an apology as Palermo’ll ever get with Berlin, and so he takes it. Gratefully, greedily. 

“Now take a deep breath, Palermo,” Berlin says in a low voice. “Yes, like that. Now exhale. Inhale. And again.” 

Palermo does as he says, keeping the air in his lungs for as long as he can. Until they burn with the need to draw in another breath. It doesn’t lessen the pain in his eyes, doesn’t even come close to making any of this bearable, but at least he no longer feels like he’s about to pass out. 

Which isn’t to say that what comes next isn’t fucking excruciating. 

There are no words to express the extent of his pain, and so he bites his bottom lip until it bleeds. He swallows his cries until they’re nothing but little whimpers. He clenches his fists until his nails leave tiny half-crescents on the skin of his palms, and tries to retreat into his mind. He draws up memories of a time without pain, a time before the Royal Bank. A time filled with vibrant colors and bright images. A time filled with happiness. 

He thinks of Florence. 

“Stockholm,” Berlin says after what feels like hours. “Palermo will need a crutch. A cane would do quite nicely.” 

There’s the sound of hurried footsteps, and then— 

“Martín.” 

— they’re alone. 

Within the blink of an eye Palermo is gone. His bravado crumbles, falls to the floor like a paper cutout version of himself. There’s no grandiosity, now. No pretension. Just Martín, scared and hurting. A portrait in three acts: transgression, suffering, repentance. 

Instinctively, Martín turns towards the sound of Andrés’s voice, the smell of his cologne, the warmth of his body. He wants to curl into Andrés, wants to burrow into his chest and ask him to hold him. To _soothe_ him. It’s pathetic, and he hates himself for it. Hates himself for needing something Andrés isn’t willing to give. Hates himself for wanting, for _craving_ something that will be forever out of reach. 

So instead of asking – instead of begging, pleading, and whining – Martín vows to be satisfied with whatever Andrés is willing to offer him. Whatever it is, he tells himself, it will have to be enough. 

He feels Andrés's hand move up his neck, the side of his face. His fingers brush against Martín's jaw and trace the sharp lines of his cheekbones, and it’s hard – it's so fucking _hard_ – to resist the urge to lean into the touch and purr like a cat starved for love and attention.

There’s the sound of rustling fabric, and a second later Martín feels the slide of fabric over his bandaged eyes. A blindfold. 

“My brave ingeniero. What you were doing was conscientious. Protecting the team, acting every part the valiant leader,” Andrés sighs, and Martín sucks in a sharp breath as he feels his finger trail over his right cheekbone, the touch as soft as a feather. “I just wish it hadn’t been at the expense of your pretty face.” 

Martín swallows hard. 

“It’ll heal,” he lies, quick to reassure Andrés. “We should go back to the others—” 

“One moment.” 

Martín falls silent, and waits. 

His heart is pounding inside his chest. He can’t tell what’s going on, and it makes him feel like a little boy who’s afraid of the dark. The only difference is that he now knows there are monsters out there. Things that go bump in the night. That want to hurt him, lurking, stalking, _preying_. 

And of course, there’s also Andrés. 

Martín can feel his eyes on him; it makes his skin prickle. To hold Andrés’s undivided attention like this – it's thrilling. Exhilarating. 

_Addictive_. 

He wonders what Andrés is doing. If he’s assessing the damage, or if he’s trying to figure out how much of a liability Martín will be like this. Or if— 

He whimpers at the sudden feeling of Andrés’s lips against his own, so soft and warm, and Martín leans into him without hesitation, keening and gasping and moaning like a fucking girl. It’s pathetic but Andrés doesn’t seem to mind. He simply holds him in place as his kisses become bruising, _demanding_. 

It’s wild and raw, and it’s everything Martín has always wanted. The fulfillment of his darkest, most hopeless fantasies – the ones that torment him in the dark of night, when his bed seems too big, too cold, too empty. 

Andrés pulls back way too soon, and Martín wants to chase his lips, desperate for more, more, _more_. 

“What does it say about me that I enjoy seeing you like this?” Andrés whispers, and Martín can feel the delicious warmth of his breath on his lips. “So vulnerable.” 

His words send a shiver down his spine, the implication behind them alarming and yet absolutely delicious. To be at Andrés's mercy like that – helpless and powerless. Just the thought is enough to undo him. 

“If you’re telling me that all I had to do to get your attention was to tie myself to your bed and put on a fucking blindfold—” 

Andrés laughs. 

“Come on, _Palermo_. I need to relieve Tokyo of her duty before she stages another coup.” 

Andrés – no, he corrects himself, it’s _Berlin_ now – helps him off the stretcher. Berlin’s hand is a firm weight on his shoulder as Palermo tries to find his balance, blind and disoriented like a newborn foal. He stumbles – just slightly – and when Berlin tries to pull away, Palermo clamps his hand over Berlin’s where it rests in the crook of his elbow, effectively trapping his fingers beneath his own. 

“This is nice,” Palermo says, his lips curving into a mischievous smirk. “I’ve always wanted a dog.” 

Berlin chuckles, and something inside Palermo’s chest swells. It’s the loveliest sound in the world, he thinks. Warm and smoky – like an expensive wine. 

Palermo’s a practical man; he’d choose his calculations and equations over Berlin’s precious artworks any day. But sometimes... In moments like these, he’d give anything to be artistically gifted. Palermo wants to write Berlin fucking poetry – just to tell him how he’d like to bottle the sound of his laughter up in a jar like a firefly, a ray of light in the dark. A handful of hope. 

Blindness, Palermo finds, isn’t so bad as long as he’s got Berlin by his side. 

As long as he’s got Andrés.

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos and comments are always appreciated; your feedback means the world to me!
> 
> I'm considering writing a version of this where it's Berlin who is temporarily blinded. Let me know if you'd be interested in reading something like that?


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